Two years ago, I had the great privilege to travel to Cuba to teach on worship in a little seminary in Havana and to preach in some house churches. Cuba? Yes, Cuba.

My father went with me on the trip. Our family is from Florida, and in the weeks leading up to the trip, we talked about my parents' memories of enduring weeks of dread during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. My dad was 21 at the time. Given that history, and the fact that Dad doesn't have a socialist bone in his body, I was surprised at how quickly he agreed to go along. We knew we were walking into a history of hostility, and that simply by being Americans, we could be lightning rods for trouble. Overall, I had peace about making the trip, but this was Cuba, and there were times when our planning was tinged with doubts.

As it turned out, the only nervous moments came on the way into the country. When our plane landed, we were met by soldiers wearing olive drab uniforms, just like in the movies. It was a little surreal. In ...

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